but come home without so much as the coat you had on, and bring a naked vagabond home with you. I have no supper for drunkards like you.”
“That’s enough, Matryóna. Don’t wag your tongue without reason. You had better ask what sort of man—”
“And you tell me what you’ve done with the money?”
Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew out the three-rouble note, and unfolded it.
“Here is the money. Trífonof did not pay, but promises to pay soon.”
Matryóna got still more angry; he had bought no sheepskins, but had put his only coat on some naked fellow and had even brought him to their house.
She snatched up the note from the table, took it to put away in safety, and said: “I have no supper for you. We can’t feed all the naked drunkards in the world.”
“There now, Matryóna, hold your tongue a bit. First hear what a man has to say—”
“Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken fool. I was right in not wanting to marry you—a drunkard. The linen my mother gave me you drank; and now you’ve been to buy a coat—and have drunk it, too!”
Simon tried to explain to his wife that he had only spent twenty kopecks; tried to tell how he had found the man—but Matryóna would not let him get a word in. She talked nineteen to the dozen, and dragged in things that had happened ten years before.
Matryóna talked and talked, and at last she flew at Simon and seized him by the sleeve.